


spiderling

by cafeanna



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Alternative Timeline, Angst, But Kuroro Is Cheaper Than Therapy, Canon-Typical Violence, Genei Ryodan | Phantom Troupe Member Kurapika, Hurt/Comfort, Kurapika Needs Self-Care Not Kuroro, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, Nonbinary Kurapika (Hunter X Hunter), Pining, Porn With Plot, Pre-Yorknew Arc, Pre-Yorkshin Arc
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:26:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,828
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27345790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cafeanna/pseuds/cafeanna
Summary: A strange sort of beauty in the broken edges, a wingspan of blood, a give of sacrifice, an image that appeals much too much to the zealot tucked behind his rationale. The iconographies, the plaster-molding, the gold-glint pages—Kurapika is a mastery of work, biblical and real.Devotion bleeding out onto the gallery floor.OR, Kurapika saves Kuroro's life. Kuroro becomes enthralled.
Relationships: Kurapika/Kuroro Lucifer | Chrollo Lucifer
Comments: 31
Kudos: 144





	spiderling

**Author's Note:**

> Side note (and if you're not my roommate, keep scrolling): Rafa, what did I say? I said if I catch you on here, I will not only sell your stand mixer, but I swear to god, I will date your sister and become your nieces step-mom. I'm not playing.
> 
> r.i.p. to anyone who read my first draft!

The moment is wreathed in sound—a shimmer of metal, the click of bootheels, and a whistle like a bell singing through the air—

" _Boss_!"

A voice resounds in the shadowed cavern of the gallery, strung high with tension, edged with teeth, and then cut.

It happens too quickly.

One moment, leaving the gallery, the scent of floor polish and charade of shadows their only companions as the welcome weight of a clean job well-done and then, the next— _chaos._

The gallery, it seems, _had_ invested on an amp of security. Rare diamonds. Sticky fingers.

Kuroro is at once shocked then _furious_ with the turn of events, but as quick as the blade, Phinks is leaping onto the mezzanine, invading that shadowy corner, and the sickening crack of _throat—_

And then, the smell of blood.

There is a figure folded double on the ground behind him.

Trembling shoulders and ragged breathes leaning over blooded fingers and the long rattle of chains. Kuroro follows the line of violence—a chain hanging like a blooded garland from the mezzanine, no doubt wrapped around the mercenaries' throat, aiding Phinks in his capture, the blade clattering to the floor, and the seizing, slouching form crouched behind him.

It's Kurapika.

His mind slowly ticks back to the moments before. The shriek of voice, the shoulder in his back, the brief of trip over air before he catches himself and discerns the reason for panic.

_He jumped in the way. He pushed me._

Machi is brushing past him the next instant, eyes scanning, unseeing before she is on her knees beside their wounded Spider, helping him onto his back. Her hands are wet with blood only after a moment, clasping palms over the wounded throat, bating away the silver-glit rings on Kurapika's hooked fingers—

He is still moving.

Seizing. A scream rising up, only to be cut off by a bubbled gurgle—

"Boss." Machi clips between her teeth. "Hold him for me."

Kuroro blinks.

He has no time to think about it. No time to consider the implications. No time to think of the blade that had been meant for him had sunk into Kurapika. _He jumped in the way._

Kuroro lowers himself to the ground beside them, following Machi's directions he uses his palm to cradle of the back of Kurapika's head, lifting slightly as to stem the bleeding. Her voice is tense with annoyance, but once Kurapika's head is elevated, she gets to work, fingers weaving with nen stitches.

A body drops to the ground. Another sickening crack followed by feet.

Phinks leans down beside them, hand bracing against Kurapika's shoulder and hip, pinning his body to the ground. Kuroro's eyes sweep the damage, the bleed red tear in his throat closing under Machi's wet fingers. "Will he survive?"

Phinks makes a noise. "Wow. Way to be optimistic, Boss."

Machi ignores them both. "Just keep him from moving." Kuroro presses his palm against Kurapika's face, his eyes snap open, wide under the dim glow of light—panicked.

And then Kuroro notices something.

In Kurapika's eye, there is an edge of an eclipse. The dark circle of iris floating on the flood of tears slipping against another circle beneath. He blinks and its gone, pinched under eyelids as his mouth opens in silent pain. He shudders. Machi's voice is clinical but pressing. "Boss, _please_ , hold him still."

Kuroro presses his hands tighter against the sides of Kurapika's face.

He can feel the cool rush of tears gathering against his palms, the sticky mat of soft hair webbing against his cheek. The burn of his skin against Kuroro's own is proof enough. Kurapika is living, and wants to _live._

It's more emotion than Kuroro has seen from him since he joined the Troupe a few months ago.

But enough to start a turning within them both.

* * *

Despite, Kurapika's injury, the heist goes off without a hitch. Just a few more bodies than they originally intended. It's the easiest thing in the world to dispose of the corpse, wrap the jewels, and retreat to the lodge on the other side of the mountain to lay low.

Pakunoda waits up for them, eyes rounding at the recounts. Phinks leaves in the morning with the reap of their evening and an address to a private collector that would pay handsomely for both merchandise and secrecy. The rest of them hunker down at the lodge, in the rooms Pakunoda secured, and wait.

Kuroro seeps in the spoil of his own thoughts, going over the motions of the heist and where he went wrong. He thinks of the meticulous blueprints he has had pinned up on the board of his squatters' apartment, the white-chalked ticks and circles indicating vent systems, camera angles, janitor doors, bathrooms, windows. He thinks of his reading of the gallery, small but rich, an attraction for the well-cultured. He thinks of his research on the collection, older than the gallery, belonging to one lord or marquis long, long ago, but the withers of time and relevancy snatched away the last vestiges of _worth—_ in this case, family jewels.

He thinks of the lay of his groundwork and each time he comes up with the same answer. A blind spot.

No matter how he cuts his teeth into it. It is a mistake on his part. A nen-user with iron-clad zetsu, slinking along the marbled edges of the mezzanine, carrying blades meant for him—

Machi's bloodstained hands sink into his mind, followed suit by images of Kurapika in bed, blood rippling wetly against the liquid silk of his shirt. His face ashen, slack. The dimness about him inches from death—

He starts again.

No blind spots.

No torn limbs.

* * *

He sits with Pakunoda while she waits to depart.

The lodge they chose as a base is a quaint little hovel, tucked away in the mountain pass for the rich and famous to get away from it all. Most of the guest either do not wish to be seen, or see others, which would make it a preferable destination if not for the artic temperatures, but business is business is business.

He snatches two complementary hot chocolates while they wait for the shuttle, finding a bench that had been cleared of snow and ice the night before. Pakunoda accepts the hot chocolate with a smile, warming her gloved hands against the cardboard.

There is something calming about the weight of winter. The press of cold air wrapping like a vice around the bundles of fleece and fur, the secret heat beneath, warm and frail, unlike the frostbitten edges of wrists and cheeks.

The stout sudden memory of his hat, lain on the floor after grabbing his coat comes back to him. His ears turning pink. "Any reason why you dragged me out here?" he asks, tipping the cup to his mouth. It burns the edge of his lip in kind.

Heat kisses his teeth.

"Because you would have followed me if I hadn't asked." Pakunoda says, voice heavy with truth and deliberation. "Also, you've been pouting."

He knows he has. "I have not."

Pakunoda cants her head, not even pretending to believe his bullshit and blows on the steam billowing her cup, taking a sip. "You have been pouting and you shouldn't. It was a mistake. Mistakes get made. The most important thing is _no one died._ "

Kuroro feels the clip of her words, tries his fingers against them. "Yes, but someone was hurt." He can taste the brine of the air—not the frigid taste of mountain, but the mad rush of the gallery. Floor polish. Lingering perfume. _Blood_. "That man was able to hide from us until the last moment."

"His nen?"

"Possibly." Kuroro says. "He was dead before I could find out."

"Dead because Kurapika caught him and Phinks finished the job." She says, resolute. Her face lifts, a beautiful profile, haloed in light, serene as snow piling atop the atrocities of yesterday. "It's over. It's done. We won the day and wounds are patched. We will do better next time." She pauses and then, "Down to the janitor."

Kuroro is not one for outward panic.

He is a thief, a con-artist, and anything less but perfect control over emotion could be the feather-weight shift between life and death, success and hunger. Inside, he can keep his private storm, starve, and save those nasty feelings for something special.

He takes a drink of hot chocolate and this time it doesn't burn.

Small blessings. Good omens.

"Is that why you brought me out here?"

"Yes, and I wanted you to get away from your little spiderling for a while." She takes another sip of cocoa. "You've been mourning at his bedside like a widow." Pakunoda says. Her voice is crisp in the morning air, hitting him with an icy breeze. Accusatory.

"My, my," Kuroro tuts as he perries, scandalized. "Should I tell Machi I've stolen you away?"

Pakunoda gives him an unamused stare, lips puckering. She slants her gaze at him. "You will do nothing of the sort." She mutters, accustomed to his teasing. "You know I worry about you."

"I know you do, Paku." Kuroro affirms, "But you don't have to worry. I have been keeping a careful eye on our _spiderling._ " His mouth quirks around the name, rolling the cardboard sides of his cup against his frigid fingers. "I don't think we have another Hisoka on our hands."

"Mm," Pakunoda hums against her cup. "Your latest hyper-fixation is someone that comes from nowhere and knows nothing, but always has his eyes strangely fixed upon you." Kuroro can see her arch with the words, dark blonde brows rising. "No, no I shouldn't worry about you though. Platitudes are lost on you, I'm afraid."

The sap of her sarcasm wanes on him, sticking to his skin.

"His aura isn't as bloodstained as Hisoka's."

"Yes, but it's blood- _lusting_. He's got a lot of anger."

Kuroro can taste the rind of chalky cocoa powder against his teeth and scrunches his nose. "That is true," he concedes. Kurapika's anger is a burning thing, white-hot, but _directable._ "So long as he flashes it where I tell him, I have no qualms with it."

"Uvogin is going to have fun with him." Pakunoda remarks gaily. "I'm surprised Nobunaga didn't cut off his hair when he slept with the way those two got on."

He remembers the miserable two weeks with _that_ combination and hums, dissatisfied. "You would think a nice resort would use something other than package mix cocoa."

He catches her pause, the peel of conversation shifting, and the imperious tilt of her frown.

"Gotta cut corners somewhere, I suppose." She sighs and hunkers into the loop of her scarf. It's a big cable-knit thing, a gift from Machi. The cold brings a strange rosy hue to her skin. Her darkened eyelashes dappled with snowflakes. Deep in thought.

Kuroro indulges her.

"Do you not trust him?"

"I trust him as much as I trust anybody. Regardless, he _did_ save your life and for that I'm thankful." Her lips quirk with a smile.

With the weight of Pakunoda's words he is thrown back in time. A child again. Another orphaned, flea-bitten youth that scans a dime a dozen and halves with each year. Another stranger without a name.

Everyday a blessing soaked in blood.

Mischief gleams in her eyes and she pinches the reddened curve of his ear. "You've gotten sloppy in a fight." She says a bite of truth under her teasing tone. Scathing now that he is not wallowing. "You should take better care of yourself, you're a grown man."

Kuroro brushes her off, annoyed.

"Noted." Kuroro remarks and tips his head to look back in the window behind him. He can see the foggy shape of people milling around in the hotel lobby, chatting, and gathering their bags. The blue-suited conductor calling them to attention. Pakunoda notices too. "I think I might go check up on my latest obsession." Kuroro trails off and Pakunoda snorts.

"Very well, I'll back off then." She says and upends her hot chocolate into the snow beside the bench. "Try not to stay on the mountain too long. Winter is settling in and I don't need to get any calls about coming back and saving you lot from boredom."

"I promise to get Machi out of here safely." He says, because it's what she wants to hear.

Pakunoda smiles and withdraws something from her coat, a slim box. "For you." Kuroro eyes the slanted gold writing embossed on the front. The scent of gloss and leather teases his nose.

"Gloves?"

"Your fingers are turning purple, Boss." She rises from the bench, fluffing out the collar of her great fur coat. "Give your boy my best?"

Kuroro smiles at her, annoyance belied only by fondness for his oldest friend. "Have a safe trip."

"You as well. Let's meet somewhere _warm_ next time." He nods, tucking the request into his mind, mapping out how to make it happen. She wags her fingers at him as she goes, joining a throng of passengers heading for the shuttle that would take them out of the mountain and into the village below, where the train station would carry her even farther.

Kuroro watches her go until she is out of sight, running his thumb along the edge of the box.

She had purchased it for him.

He always feels a little anxious whenever he and the group part. A deep pulling in his gut that makes him think of loss. Pakunoda is one of his oldest friends. Had the cards worked out different, he might have been traveling with her and Machi, sipping hard cider and enjoying the crust of the upper cabins on the train, but there remained a Spider in his bed that needed his more immediate attention.

Pakunoda would only be annoyed with him for worry about her, though she does the same.

He tucks the box into the folds of his coat and steps back inside, trading his drink for another from the frost-bitten tray.

Kuroro offers a banal smile at the doorman and taps his shoes on the plush carpet, scraping away excess ice and muddy water. The lobby is sung with golden light, all roaring fires and low red couches, antlers and cherrywood-framed art hung upon the walls. The companionable air of silence, of bedding down, of sleep.

He too would like to make tracks before they got stuck here too long.

He makes his way up to his floor, noting the color scheme shift from red to green as the faded brocade carpet led him back to his room. Machi looks up when he enters, expression squinting over a magazine.

"Did you get me a cider?" He produces it from behind his back and Machi nods in thanks. His gaze falls to the bed in the corner, eyes darkening.

"How's our patient?"

"Sleeping still." Machi says, blowing on the lip of the lid. "But he's stable enough now."

He steps further into the deep of the room, cast in shadow and wreathed with warmth from the furnace. The rectangle cut of light shown white against the bedsheets, shadowing the soft form of Kurapika lain in sleep.

He watches his eyelids move, the whisper of dark lashes across those bruised under eyes. He turns his attention back to Kurapika's bag, taken from his private room, to relocate to Machi's.

The glinting edge of the zipper beckons to him.

He respects his Spider's privacy, but the Pakunoda's words draw a strange ringing in his ear.

They know so little about Kurapika and though he has taken the stead as Fourth in killing Hisoka, he cannot help the persistent buzzing that something rotten might be afoot.

Kurapika is a volatile creature, Kuroro has seen him in battle. He attacks every opponent they have faced with a terrifying accuracy, but a bloodstained killer he is not. He holds none of the prowess of Uvo or Nobunaga. Not even the playfulness of Feitan. His movements are direct, absolute.

They had been introducing him slowly to the Spiders. The long-haul con come September was fast approaching and they would all soon all be together whilst they knit Kurapika into their tapestry. As leader, Kuroro wanted first and foremost to know who Kurapika worked well with, how his skills and the other Spiders worked.

Thus far, Kuroro himself seems to be the weakest link.

 _He jumped in front of a blade for me,_ he thinks, the same mantra as before. _But why?_

The wind pounds against the double-paned windows, pries him from his thoughts. Machi rises from her seat to inspect for herself. "That snowstorm is getting close and closer."

In his mind, Kuroro knows the trip from here would be treacherous. If they cannot catch the shuttle out, then they will have to wait for a pocket of opportunity, time winding slow until they could find a way down the mountain pass back to civilization.

Kuroro is not so much a stickler of timing, but a student of it. He knows how to stretch an hour and pinpoint the necessity of a second. Timing is a very important thing.

He eyes the dark gray clouds hung above the wispy white and then back to the darkened shape of Kurapika, snug in bed, blind to it all. "Can we move him?"

"We can," Machi says though she sounds resigned to. "I don't think it would be a good idea." Kuroro nods, trusting her judgement. He knows Machi would much rather be on the train with Pakunoda, but she is a Spider, through and through. She will not abandon Kuroro nor would she besmirch her duties.

There is nothing left to do but wait, it seems.

He folds himself into the chair and takes out his book. "We'll give it a day," he says, resolute. "If not, we'll move him."

* * *

Kurapika wakes in a quiet slot of the night, the hours long and the night a black river.

He watches the progression of wakefulness in frames. The lift of eyelids, the curl of mouth, the shift of shoulders—the monster rise and curve of Kurapika's body as he leans up, folds, and hangs, fitful and uneasy.

Kuroro is still in his chair, watching this pantomime with the ebb to sleep streaking from his vision. Colors run together, dreams folding in. Awake.

Kurapika, though he makes no noise, looks pained. His fingers press to the bridge of his nose. A long winding moment of rocking forward, then back, knuckles sinking into sockets.

He watches the display, then lifts his hand. It's bad luck to wake a dreamer, worser still to touch someone with those polite barriers of distance still in place.

Eyelids crack.

And the seal of wind-whipped _rage_ curls out from beneath the that simmering lid; an ill-refined out pour of venom and nastiness that bottle much, much slower than it creeps.

It stills his hand.

Kuroro ponders it for a moment too long, eyeing the trembling curve of Kurapika's shoulders before the meditative calm wash over him. The length of his spine prominent under his linen shirt.

His voice is soft, hoarse. "How long was I out?"

Kuroro turns his attention toward the bedside table. A glass of water sitting untouched.

"A day and a half," Machi says curtly. She must have risen from her sleep when Kurapika woke. "You saved the Boss's life."

Kurapika doesn't look at him. His hands are twisted in his shirt— _his_ shirt, _new—_ as if putting the pieces together. "You went through my things?" His voice is a rasp. Machi does not look the least bit guilty.

"Your clothes were ruined." She says. "Would you have rather I left you naked?"

Kurapika sighs, something heavy and seething between his teeth. A dragon coiling with fire. "No, I— _thanks._ "

"You're welcome," Machi says primly and her eyes flicker over Kurapika's head to Kuroro. "The Boss thinks we should leave the lodge before the storm sets in. Do you feel well-enough to move?" Kuroro's mouth folds, but Machi pays him no mind.

Kurapika is a solider. He'll go where Kuroro asks.

* * *

And he does. Aching and slow, he dresses and the three of them check out of the lodge and make their way to the shuttle that will take them down the mountain. The gears grinding against the ice, the conductor cheerfully tells them that they will be the last of the day. Machi nods coolly. Kuroro feigns interest.

Kurapika, however, has his head stuck out the narrow window, a wintry chill flowing through his hair. Kuroro notes how long it is, in the bleaching winter sun, his blond head tipped in pale gold and darker at his crown.

He also notices the way Kurapika's hands are gripping the window ledge. Chapped, pinkened fingers curling against the metal. His hands tremble with the grip.

Machi shivers beside him. The conductor looks concerned. "Erm, you might want to tell you friend to—"

There is a shift in his entire body, a lurch that Kuroro catches out of the corner of his eye. At first, he thinks Kurapika might throw himself out, but then the sounds of wet retching reach his ears and eases back into his chair. He offers a smile to the conductor, banal, charming, and shrugs, "Motion sickness."

Machi tuts. "I feel sorry for whoever's below us."

Kuroro hums.

He leaves his hand on the knot of Kurapika's fine coat, thinking he might be able to use it for leverage in case Kurapika decides to take a plunge. He can feel the motions of Kurapika's body, the rise and fall against the ragged draw of breath.

* * *

They don't usually splurge on train tickets, though for Machi and Pakunoda, he might abate, but with Kurapika in the state that he is in, Kuroro gets them a private cabin for the first leg of their travels, hoping Kurapika might take a turn once they reach a warmer climate.

It's a luxury, Kurapika barely seems to appreciate when he collapses onto the velvet seat, sagging with effort.

Kurapika keeps his head bowed against the window, breathing deeply through his nose, fogging the glass.

Machi rises a moment later, muttering something about ginger ale and leaves the cabin on a mission. Kuroro notes, with some pride, that she left her wallet behind in the folds of her coat. _Old habits,_ he notes with a smile.

When he glances back to the window, he finds Kurapika staring at him.

He is folded against the wall, his burning cheek pressed against the window. He looks feverish in the pallid light, washed out.

Kuroro tries not to take it so personally the way Kurapika is glowering at him. Brows knit, lips pressed.

"You can sleep if you need to."

"I'm fine." Kurapika says, it's the first he's spoken since the train station, gargling his mouth out in the men's room before boarding the train with a long look of dread. Kuroro eyes the tilted corners of his mouth, the way he seems to fold into himself even more now that the attention is on him.

He supposes Kurapika must be feeling quite vulnerable. The last few days have not exactly been easy on him and he does not exactly seem to trust Kuroro yet, despite his insistence. Still.

He tries again. "Truly, I won't mind."

"I am _fine._ Thank you." Kurapika says, all that venom-laden politeness baying under that temper of his. A crack of what Kurapika keeps under the lid. "Don't concern yourself with me, Boss."

Kuroro frowns and turns his attention back to his book. His eyes skimming over the same line over and over. The image of Kurapika, blooded and golden, making tracks in his mind.

A strange sort of beauty in the broken edges, a wingspan of blood, a give of sacrifice, an image that appeals much too much to the zealot tucked behind his rationale. The iconographies, the plaster-molding, the gold-glint pages—Kurapika is a mastery of work, biblical and real.

Devotion bleeding out onto the gallery floor.

He knows, the Troupe will exist without him should he die. Though, he does not see death at the edge of a blade, nor the hands of their pursuers, but had a stroke of luck or karmic thrust done him in, he may have very well been the one bleeding out a dark puddle, finding his end in the pursuit of a con.

The Troupe would live on, but they would _mourn_ him, as followers do, as _friends_ do.

He can feel the sting in his heart where death aches in him like the loss of a limb and bares his teeth to it, unrelenting, unyielding.

As unnecessary as his actions were, Kurapika did save his friends that heartache.

And thusly, is deserving in gratitude. Though, Kuroro is not sure how to show it.

Most people are simple in that gratitude can be shown in gifts, rewards, and riches beyond dreams. Kurapika does not run in such platitudes. He is giving in nature. He puts his blood, sweat, and tongue out for the Spiders, but he asks for nothing in return.

Moments of quiet, stolen between meetings, reading brass-tipped books, pouring into the curve of a glass.

He cannot think of a gift befitting of Kurapika further than the breadth of solitude.

But that doesn't quite suit _Kuroro's_ tastes, in the least.

He chances a glance from his book, mind swimming with Kurapika, to find Kurapika coasting beyond him. He has his attention set out the window, watching the wintery wonderland slip by.

He has a hand around his throat. Lost in himself, as his fingers graze over skin, feeling for the rippled edge of a scar. Though, he would not find one.

Machi's work is seamless.

He tries to get his tongue to find the words to speak, but he finds himself merely watching Kurapika as he thumbs at the curve of his throat.

Kurapika's eyes find his. Sable black in a straining pink cornea.

A new page in the mystery.

 _Ah, yes. The contacts._ That is what Kuroro had seen when Kurapika's eyes went wide and the tears clouded his vision. He supposed the touch could be medical, but when he looks at Kurapika—all honey-hued and sienna—and the flat black eyes seem amiss in his natural palette. He had decided with himself that the contacts might be cosmetic, but that did not seem to track either.

Kurapika is meticulous about his appearance.

His clothes are always clean, nicely pressed, and finely made. He has a distinct style, a subtle flare that he expresses through clothes that he does not voice. The selection of a color or cut to an outfit giving wind to a mood. Even the chains that lace his fingers offer an odd harmony to his façade.

He always appears put together; a grace that carries even as sick as he is.

The contacts were the only glaringly obvious misstep in Kurapika's otherwise spotless appearance.

Kurapika's gaze levels with his, black eyes sparking, not with fight, but curiosity. "What?"

He can't help it.

"Did you know a spider can exist without their head?"

A skeptical look. "Really."

The flat affect should deter him, and yet, "Really," Kuroro says, snapping his book shut on his lap. The whine of his new gloves creases the fold of his palm.

There is something about Kurapika that makes him feel _chatty_. It's unnerving. Unlike Pakunoda's reflective silences or Machi's out-right brush-offs, Kurapika's quiet is not distant, its observant. "Cut off the head, the spider will live on. Even for a little while."

Kurapika listens as if he were drinking in Kuroro quietly. He does this quite often, Kuroro has noticed and others have as well. Kurapika likes to watch Kuroro out of the corners of his eye and the edge of his periphery; taking him in as if he were art on the wall.

He is not as enthralled by the idea of adoration since Hisoka's skewed interests invaded their midst. However, this is something flattering about someone paying him such attention. Having his words measured and peered over so carefully.

Machi once told him he liked having his ego stroked.

That fine, fine machinery of parts draws up and then down again, a shrug. The delicate furrow at the bridge of his nose. "Are we speaking in metaphors?" He asks, candid as always.

Kuroro tips his chin and Kurapika's expression crunches, as if offended. He doesn't like playing games as much as the others. Machi and Shalnark can match him hit for hit. Bonolenov might riddle something of the story. Kurapika always digs his heels in, wrenching out the hidden meaning with the clipped edges of his nails. Pulling until he bleeds.

Kurapika's frown is a lament. "Don't tease me." His stare is long and piercing, waiting for Kuroro to break it first. Kuroro leans forward, elbows on knees. This close, he can see the rind of the color contacts in Kurapika's eyes.

It's easy to find when one knows where to look.

"Tell me," he says slowly, drinking in the ticks and shifts of Kurapika's demeanor, the way he holds himself stiff as if awaiting a blow. _So distrusting._ He tuts and poses his hand on an open palm. "Do you regret saving me?"

The reveal is instantaneous, and he reads Kurapika's answer before he can give it. Despite the cowling, cold airs he puts on, there remains something soft about Kurapika that gives under the correct pressure.

"It's alright," he says, gently. Kurapika is delicate machinery, not a pin to pull. No matter how tempted Kuroro is to strike a short fuse, it is not his to light just yet _._ He offers what he knows to be a kind smile. "You're still gathering your bearings."

Kurapika's expression is a horrible symphony of emotion, but the palpable _fear_ that carves into the cleft of his mouth is almost enough to make Kuroro regret mentioning it. He might enjoy Kurapika's company, but he does not enjoy the knife's edge of _intensity_ Kurapika carries with that effortless grace of his.

It's exhausting in exposure.

Tiring, really.

Kurapika's mouth moves, like a fish, gaping and then words tumble out. A slew of them all long and slurring, just the touch of _guilt_ tripping over the double bass in his tone. "I don't—I don't regret saving you." His eyes flicker to Kuroro's and then away again and, more to himself, he mumbles, "Not that you don't make me regret it _,_ but—"

"Oh," Kuroro huffs, amused, "suddenly I'm the villain of the story."

The look Kurapika gives him is glacial. "You _are_ ," he says annoyance baying under that teasing tone, but Kuroro senses, in that hairline fissure of a second, a note of something else in his voice. Something crucial.

"But." Kuroro prompts, mirth sinking from his smile.

" _But,_ " Kurapika allows his eyes to close. A furrow appearing between his brows. "It is not regret I feel so much as, I just . . . I surprised myself. I didn't think I would be able to move as I did, but in the moment, it was . . . _instinct_ over body, over mind. I just moved on my own."

It's not perfect, but it's honest.

And that _plummets_ somewhere inside of him, filling his chest.

A warm brush of blood under skin.

Perhaps Machi is right. Maybe he does just like having his ego stroked.

His mouth tilts, flashing a show of teeth. He doesn't like to show all his cards. Less than Kurapika.

Instead, Kuroro fits his jaw in the crux of his hand, his little finger picking against his lip. "How heroic."

"Oh, dry up." Kurapika snaps, but there is a roll in his voice, some lightheaded glee for being able to speak to him so informally. He does it so rarely. Respect is expected, familiarity is earned. Though he has more than earned the right. "I saved your life. You are my boss. It's what I'm supposed to do."

There is something to that.

It's loyalty.

No matter how efficient. It is loyalty in affect. Loyalty that strikes deep in his chest, twisting down to the root. That this person, furious and burning would chain his loyalty to him, to _them_. The Spider is only as strong as its whole and the addition of Kurapika in their midst only fortifies their defenses. _Still_.

"What?" Kurapika clips, nastily.

"Nothing," Kuroro says, he reclines back in his seat, tucking his smile against his mouth. Head bowed to his book. "It's kind of sweet the way you care about me."

Kurapika's mouth corrodes, lips pulling back against teeth for vicious smile. "Shut up."

By the time Machi returns, they have quieted into companionable silence, watching the landscape carve out beyond the pine. She eyes the two of them before divulging her spoils and offering them to Kurapika. "Here," Machi hands him a drink and a pill bottle, which Kurapika accepts, eyes widening on the bottle before glancing back at Machi. "For the pain."

Kurapika's expression wavers slightly. Not confusion or annoyance, but gratitude. Beautiful. His eyes crinkle at the edges when he offers Machi a small smile. "Thank you." Machi nods, efficient as always and reclaims her seat across from him, pulling a magazine from her belt.

Kuroro lifts a brow. "What?"

"Nothing." Machi says, tossing her hair over her shoulder.

* * *

It's another month before he sees Kurapika again. He had sent him ahead with Shalnark at the train station. The two of them heading west to track down information on the Ten Dons, but it is not long before he receives a postcard in the mail.

The ruins of a sandstone castle, a fallen regime, a courtyard where heads once rolled turned into a vacation spot and veranda. He eyes the ball-point blue mark where the bar would be, then traces the indigo of Shalnark's flowing script:

_The contradas here are a clannish as ever, but the sangria is sweet. Wish you were here! -S_

He did promise Pakunoda somewhere warm.

He answers Shalnark's all-clear with a note of his own and packs his bags for a seaside villa. Traveling with Pakunoda and Machi reminds him of the old days, when it was just the three of them, cutting through the wastes of Meteor City with nary a jenny between them. Even with the added additions of Machi's loose-limbed coil around Pakunoda's waist, it feels as though everything is as it should be.

Together again, very soon.

Shalnark is laying low on the beach, nose peeling at the bridge, and looking more like a horrid tourist than a spy on a mission, but he yields the same results. Over drinks on that very veranda, he details to the three of them the ins he and Kurapika have dug up on the mafia—an old man's broken heart, a hackled rivalry, and a young psychic.

"Oh, hey, I've heard of her." Pakunoda lowers her sunglasses to gaze at the black-n-white photos. "She can see a month into the future, right?" Shalnark nods, mouth around his straw.

"Yeah, but her premonitions are written out in poems. So, you've gotta riddle out whatever's coming for you." His words seem to loop together, tired, and excited, sun and drink making him an endearing sight, leaning up on his elbows, gesturing through the air as if drawing out their plans.

"Sounds like a waste of time to me." Machi says dismissively. "We should focus more on that lonely heart's club guy. It'll be easy for one of us to get the drop on him."

"Mm, but seducing the information out of him?" Shalnark lifts a brow, eyes snapping between the two of them. He sucks his teeth. "I don't mean to be rude, but you sapphics aren't exactly _inspiring_ any lonely old men."

Pakunoda chokes on her drink, but Machi gapes at him, wide-eyed and blinking; the table dissolves into squabbles. Machi snapping threats without heat, Shalnark tipping off the side of his chair, and Pakunoda running a cooling hand on her girlfriend's hip, lips curling with warmth.

As it should be.

Kuroro leans back in the companionable air, drinking in the feeling of _being._ He cherishes moments like this. The Spiders together and having space to enjoy their time.

Shalnark snickers at Machi's coil. "We're better off sending in Kurapika. Let me tell you, he can charm the pants off anyone. Easy."

That catches the snare of his attention.

He noted Kurapika's self-dismissal when the four of them sat for drinks but had not put too much thought into it. Kurapika is often going off on his own.

Kuroro eyes the veranda with its milling guests in their pastel garb and hanging cameras. "And where is he now?"

"Oh, he's down by the rocks," Shalnark gestures with his sangria. Strawberry sweetening the rim. "Interesting guy. Doesn't talk much, but he seems alright to me." Kuroro nods at the comment. Approval from Shalnark is not exactly hard won, but Shalnark is not one to mince words. _Interesting guy. Charm the pants off anyone._

Briefly, he wonders what inspired those words.

He spots him on the bluff below the bar, standing at the craggily edge of the old castle wreathed in light. Kuroro excuses himself.

"Ooh," Shalnark hums as he rises. "Personal interest?"

Pakunoda plucks an olive from the aperitivo and tosses it at him. "Hush you."

Kuroro offers her a closed-lipped smile of thanks and makes his way down to Kurapika. He is wearing a shirt of some watery material, unbuttoned at the throat. His hands are tucked into the pockets of his chinos. Thumbs hooked against the pressed crease.

He doesn't look back when Kuroro approaches. He does nothing when Kuroro joins him, scanning the frothing white shoreline and pale sand, not a cloud in sight. Kurapika's gaze is sightless, staring out at nothing, but there is a pinch to his brow.

An immensity like the cabin car, the hotel room, the gallery floor.

Salty air clings to his teeth.

"What has you so heavy?" Kuroro asks, squinting in the sun. He fairs well in harsh light. Although the parlor of his skin says different. He was brought up in Meteor City, under harsh rays and harsher winds. Kurapika looks as though he is leaning into the breeze, head tipped back, letting the ocean air wash over him.

His eyes are closed.

The arid climate agrees with him.

Despite his maudlin and poise, Kurapika looks ethereal surrounded by fields and pale blue waters. Peaceful. Kuroro might even wax biblical. Everything about Kurapika suggested those stories he read of angels, downy wings, unearthly beauty.

Kurapika hums, "I miss the heat." His voice sounds distant, eyes closed, sunlight washing over him. Then, if not a little forlorn. "It reminds me of home."

Home.

The word drags something ragged from his chest, something of loss and pain, twisting deeper than the acquaintance between them. It snags in his mind, sinking low. Warm and beautiful places remind Kurapika of home.

Somehow it fits.

Kurapika would come from somewhere so lovely.

Kuroro does not ask further questions. Although the allied lines between him and the Spiders are strong, he does not often press or pry. If it was information Kurapika wanted him to know, then he would know it. And maybe one day he would.

He eyes the glass by the toe of Kurapika's shoe. The ball of ice melted down to a marble, turning the brown liquor almost opaque. "Do you want to get another drink?"

Kurapika sighs, "In a moment." He looks at him then. His eyes are liquid and brilliant. Kuroro feels his stomach give, a deep ease followed by a sharp spike, his heart pulsing in his chest, the same rhythm is always, but he felt it stutter and warm.

Islands of void floating in milky red. "Stay here and enjoy the view with me?"

There is something in the offer that has Kuroro deliberating, rolling the ice cubes in his own glass. The pitch of Kurapika's voice is laden with heaviness like the pull of a throat, tears. And Kurapika wears his vulnerability like a wolf bares its teeth. The promise of violence when backed into a corner.

Kuroro knows better than to hang around.

But then, there is the part of him that wants to learn, to stay and soak in his light for a while longer. The part of him that meets those teary eyes and says, "Of course" before they stand shoulder-to-shoulder in silence, enjoying the sunshine.

* * *

The plan has been coming together quite nicely these past few months. The deals have been struck, the prices met, and the chips falling into place. They will be meeting for a fitting con soon. Riches abound for all.

Kurapika is still a note in the back of his mind. He has met most all the Spiders except Feitan and Franklin, but the two have been dealing with business in Ryuseigai, keeping the peace with those elders who wretch and crow, but never leave their hovels to solve any problems.

Kuroro might have to take charge one day. When he is old and gray and has nothing better to do.

He might even call himself a king and appoint his Spiders as if they were noble houses. Just to mock and rattle the bones of Kakin if he will.

Unbidden, his mind wanders to Kurapika. His powerful mien and blue-veined royalty. He wonders how he might look dressed in the riches of a prince—a consort.

He steps into the forest greens, cloaking himself in zetsu as he clears the trees. Kurapika is known for running off, but it is never further than the Spiders can find, never further than he can reach.

It warms him to know the spiderling is at his beck and call.

He finds Kurapika deeper in the wood, on the high arch of a tree, looking like a faerie or a nymph from some old tale, caught in the serene pull of mediation

Kurapika is poised as always, back ramrod straight, shoulders drawn and dropped, his face a mask of focus as his lids fall closed. His lips slightly parted as he drew in breath after breath; the smooth drag and pull of his chest, filling his lungs with the humid air.

Deep silence. A bird song whistles through the trees.

In the dying light, Kurapika is all iron-wrought and gold-filigree.

 _People would love and adore him,_ he thinks, mud sinking into the soles of his boots. _Love to adore him._

He draws closer, moving to sit opposite and study the façade up close. The bronze hues, the gold, the velvet gray of Kurapika's suit jacket. Everything about him is meticulous and upright, beautiful in the ways of classic paintings and rich in color. The thief in Kuroro's chest aches with the fervor itch of _want,_ but for _what_ Kuroro is not sure.

He gazes at Kurapika's calm façade, the marble curve of his face.

The eyes of the statue slide open, blink once, twice, like a doll. Beneath the fringe of lashes, Kurapika's eyes are burnt. "You need me?" he asks.

Kuroro blinks at the question. "I hear one of the queens of Kakin has fallen ill." He says, tone conversational and light. "The deathly business of nobility, I'm afraid. But in their culture, I hear its customary for funeral palls to be prepared for a highborn woman's death." Kurapika eyes him. Such is their game. "Get it for me?"

There is a drowsy frown pulling at Kurapika's mouth, a flicker in his eyes. Burnt edges simmering low. "You want me to steal a queen's funeral pall?"

"I hear it will be decorated with jewels." Kuroro continues. "And she was a well-beloved consort. I'm sure the good courts of Kakin will not send her off without something marvelous adorning her."

* * *

Kurapika arrives back from his errand in a week, eyes long and distant as he deposits his prize—the funeral pall made for the now dead queen of Kakin, encrusted with precious gems and metals—out on the kitchen table before him. Even as tired as he is, from the shadows under his eyes and the pull of his mouth, he shows Kuroro the fruits of his labor.

He is quite knowledgeable. Smart with the cultured voice of an intellectual, Kuroro can listen to him for hours as he explains the intricate pattern of gems, sapphires and emeralds, seed-pearls and slivers of ruby, interwoven like a prayer into the gray-blue gossamer.

The vanity of the rich even in death.

Shizuku and Nobunaga have bowed out of the temporary base hours ago, not as interested in Kurapika's history lesson. The rented rooms are silent without them playing cards in the background.

Purposeful, he notes.

Kuroro's gaze shifts to where Kurapika's hands are splayed, hard callous fingertips catching on the edge of the material. His eyes dip across the chains and then back up to his face. Kurapika is watching him. "This _is_ the one you wanted."

It's not a question. An affirmation.

A _question my choices_ tone. A dare.

Kuroro likes dares.

He likes dares, and fulfilled orders, and spoils of a con, and Kurapika, it seems.

And he likes Kurapika a lot.

He leans forward on his knuckles. "Aren't you curious what I wanted this for?" Kuroro asks blithely ignoring the heat in Kurapika's stare. He counts the jewels and their intricate knots. Exactly thirty-seven. Kurapika had not tried to out theft a thief.

"Not particularly." Kurapika says, withdrawing. He shifts his weight away from the table onto his hip and peers a Kuroro, nonplussed. "I assumed the knowledge of me chasing after your little whimsy was amusement enough for you."

He huffs, soundless. "Would it amuse you if I said yes?"

There is something sedated about him now. Just the smooth river of calm like he had been on the rocks. There is an ease in his shoulders, a softness in his breath. That cold, coiling energy that grated like the chains he wore sinking low beneath the surface.

Like a predator in their primaries, enticing without poison.

Kurapika's mouth folds, not a smile, but not a frown either. "I would—" he says, a peaked unkind curve of his mouth slivers into a smirk, "be amused by a _thank you_. If it pleases you."

It's a joke.

A gentle suppleness in his tone. A _flirtation_ taunts the pull of Kurapika's mouth.

It simmers something raw-bone in his chest.

He leans forward, his hand brushing the sliver of skin between Kurapika's jaw and throat. It startles him—Kuroro can feel it in the pull of breath beneath his palm—but it doesn't cause Kurapika to pull away. Kurapika goes still. His eyes go flat for a moment, warmth brimming under the press of Kuroro's fingers.

Then, he is looking at him, eyes flickering up and locking with Kuroro's own. The calculating stare of a thief. Sizing up the moment.

His lips pull into a grimace. "Did I speak too freely?"

It's annoying blasé for the rush of pulse under his palm.

"Not at all." Kuroro says amiably, finger curling tighter under Kurapika's chin to brush against the ridge of jawbone, the blotchy flush of a bruise sinking under his skin. He wants to see deeper into those eyes _._ "But _thank you Kurapika_."

He drags the words out slow and honied. He feels the answering shiver against Kurapika's skin and is enthralled.

"You're welcome." Kurapika's manners never fail him, and he is as brutal with those as he is his quips. Kuroro can feel the possessive dig of them against his ears before he can feel the graze of Kurapika's hand, rough tipped fingers against the cool inside of his wrist.

There is no grip to his touch, no halt, no hinder. Just hovering, like Kuroro.

He feels Kurapika swallow again and sensing the movement, Kuroro eases his thumb along the cord of his throat. Kurapika makes a noise, surprise, almost choked. There is a flash of panic in his expression, pried out under Kuroro's nails. "What are you doing?"

Each word drops like a stone.

What _is_ he doing?

His open palm is still not gripping, just resting; feeling the cords and the tenuous, fragile muscles of Kurapika's neck; feeling the vibrations of his soft voice, the whisper of those sighs, and the bunch of tension every time Kuroro moves a tick.

The flat black of Kurapika's eyes are wide, guarded, and _present._

Kuroro wonders again why he wears them. The contacts, that is. Eyes so dark seem out of place against the palette of Kurapika's skin and hair tones. It feels a bit like painting over a masterpiece, which he has done in the past, for a gag, but it's not the debauchery he wants. He wants Kurapika stripped bare, he wants the facades and layers and coverings of Kurapika, as he is, torn aside.

Then, he wants to chip the paint under his own nails.

What is he _doing_?

"Thinking." There is something so familiar, so beautiful about Kurapika, like something fleeting and unknown. Something he wants to covet and _collect_. "You look weary."

And he does.

Like a man in the desert, parched and worn. Like a Ryuseigai native, the hunger for something _more,_ something _greater_ imbued in him since birth. Like a flicker in the dark, that starving rage in his chest seems to be sated with want for sleep. Kurapika is worn and, under Kuroro's palm, he is giving.

The pressure against his palm shifts, not moving, not touching, but _leaning._

His eyes tip to the full curve of Kurapika's mouth. The faint freckle of sunlight on the top corner of his lip, barely visible in the pink. He wants to brush his finger against it, feel it. Chase it with his mouth, taste the salt of his skin.

"Are you tempted?" The words take shape on Kurapika's mouth and Kuroro feels desire coil in the pit of his stomach.

The moments after feels almost out-of-body.

Kuroro curls his hand down, now caging the fragile bones of his neck and vertebra into the bracket of his palm. There is another flicker, a shudder-flash of a _spark_ in those dark, dark eyes. A trepidation, an unease, a misstep. Kurapika's tongue darts out to wet his lips and Kuroro chases it.

It is almost too easy to pull Kurapika in for a kiss; that malleable, coiling piece on his chessboard collides against him with stiff limbs and a scrap of teeth. Kurapika's hand braces against Kuroro's chest almost instantly. For a moment, Kuroro thinks the spiderling might shove him back; snap at him with that beautiful rage, but Kurapika's hand slides down. Smooth across Kuroro's chest and around his waist with a soft little moan. Desperate. Addictive. _More_.

His teeth catch Kurapika's lip, feeling the whine exhaling in his chest. When his hand moves back from his throat to the base of Kurapika's skull, he threads his fingers through his hair and makes a fist, pulling his neck to arch.

Kurapika's breath is heavy, his eyes glazed. He seems to steady himself with a gulp of air, lips parting. "This is a bad idea," he whispers, voice hoarse.

Kurapika stares at him between those shuddered breaths and the furrow dimpling between his brows. His eyes are the rich burn of ocher, hesitant, taking him in.

Feeling experimental, Kuroro leans in, pressing his lips to Kurapika's again, chasing that feeling. The light press of lips returned with a part.

"Mh, I won't tell if you won't." Kuroro murmurs against his mouth and Kurapika sighs, exasperate. He can feel the build of an argument in his chest, against his diaphragm with each pull of air. The dry brush of lip. "Or we can stop." He offers, fingers easing in Kurapika's hair. "If you want."

Kurapika gives him an icy look, as if mad at him for giving him the choice. His hands, which have been set almost politely on his waist slip behind his back, bringing their hips flush together. "Don't you dare."

His voice is all soft, heady with the rush of desire _._

It is all the by-your-leave Kurapika gives him before he closes his eyes, head tipping back in the grip of his fingers to extend his throat and so giving, Kuroro descends on a freckle. Kurapika murmurs something he doesn't catch, a hymn and a mumble, cutting at the end under Kuroro's teeth for a high note.

He loves that breathy sound. He follows the tune of it while he claims his mouth again, biting at his lip when Kurapika rolls his hips against his. Slow and lingering.

There is something to an intimacy like this—shedding jackets, and his necktie—and he only startles when Kurapika pushes against him, guiding _him_ to the edge of the table with soft breaths and nudging hips. He sounds winded when he whispers, "Get on the table."

Kuroro is even more surprised by the part of his brain that registers dark lashes and warm hands before he is sat back against the polish oak. A whine resounding at the shift of his weight, the sharp edge hitting the backs of his knees.

Kurapika is climbing atop of him the next moment, the sturdiness of the table attested to, as he lays Kuroro out across the funeral pall.

He thinks, with some mirth, that there might be something to that. Some funny symbolism.

He is not sure what he imagined for them, but a bed had always been in those indulgent fantasies. A bed with the two of them rolling across the space, soft sheets cushioning Kurapika's arching form.

Or, a mattress, at least.

Kurapika has his hands on his shirt.

Kuroro is enthralled by the way the buttons pop, the enthusiastic curl of Kurapika's tongue. The rough drag of Kurapika's nervous hands across his chest, nails digging in just enough for him to _feel_ it as he leans over him, _pleasing_ him, in a way that pulls a strange desire from Kuroro's chest.

The chains are gone. Disappeared in the heat of the moment, leaving Kurapika's hands bare and warm.

He begins to pull at Kurapika's clothes, but the blond stops him with a single hand on his chest, pushing him back as his body curves to sit on Kuroro's thighs. He seems to be composing himself as he draws himself up and then grinds down _._

The sweet press of friction makes him hiss, he unbuttons his own shirt slowly, keeping that same tight rhythm, each roll of hips revealing more skin, more lean muscle that Kuroro wants to taste. Kurapika takes one of his hands and presses it against his naked skin.

With the heat in his eyes, the suggestion is clear _feel me, enjoy me._

The contact last for a second, Kuroro's fingers mapping out the curve of ribs, before Kurapika is drawing back.

He misses the click of his belt buckle, the shift of Kurapika's weight from him and then the rise of gooseflesh as his pants are drawn down his legs. The soft touch of Kurapika's palms, smooth drags against hipbones and the hair-rising whistle of a _breath—_

His thighs tighten.

Kurapika's mouth wraps around him pulling a choked off sound, too vulnerable, too soft, but too _good,_ as his head meets the back of a tongue.

He can feel himself tilting, breath humming, Kurapika's thumb brushing the cut of hipbone and fist working around his length. He tips his head forward, taking in the sight of curved lashes, lips kissing the curl of a fist, and the pretty blond curtain of hair obscuring his view—

His finger curls at the edge of Kurapika's face, tucking a strand behind one pinkened ear, when the blond pulls off him, tongue slipping against his lips. Kuroro's fingers are tipped against the spill of hair, itching to card, to slide, to _grip,_ but the darkness of Kurapika's eyes gives him pause. One breath, another. "No."

He says this firmly, gently, but there is a peak of _something_ in his tone, some viper-rage, wolf's tooth _back off._ His free hand pressing against the space below his navel. A testament of strength. A warning.

Kuroro taste his tongue going dry.

The way Kurapika is _looking_ at him—

"Hands off." Kurapika says, quips, offering firmer direction before Kuroro can—complain? reason? haggle? not _beg,_ not ever—the lidded look slides down low on those dark eyes, lashes peaked. The seducer once again.

Kurapika's mouth parts, tongue flicking against the slit of his head before sliding down the underside of a vein. Breath catches. The touch is teasing, light, and _not enough,_ but Kurapika brings the flat of his tongue up and looks at him. Dark hooks pulling him _in,_ enticing him to watch _._ "Be good for me." Then his eyes fall shut, mouth sinking _down_ in a way that makes his jaw look full and heavy, and the sight pulls another ragged moan from somewhere deep inside of him.

_Good for me, good for me, be good for me—_

With great effort, his hands curl into fists at his sides, leaning up on his elbows so he can see better, but with every wet brush of tongue and maddening slide of lips, Kurapika is making it harder and harder for him to want anything else _but_ to touch him, please him, kiss heat into that space between his thighs—

" _Kurapika._ "

The desire catches a trap in his chest, rising and pinkened as the shell of Kurapika's ear. He wants so much to kiss, coddle, and _possess_ that the act of _giving_ pleasure, the thought of it, at least, makes something desperate twist in his gut tighten and bunch.

He chases dreams of that heat. Even as Kurapika tight perfect mouth bobs against him, tongue rolling, lips humming, he cannot help but crave the feeling, the sweet tension of bunching thighs and curving spines, the horrid, horrid thought he might not be able to _touch._ Denied his uncommon desire to please and preen.

He wants to sink his teeth into the curve of Kurapika's throat.

He wants to suck bruises and teeth marks and press his thumb into the blue-black kisses—

He huffs with his laughter, splintering down into a moan, a hum-hammering _sigh,_ "I'm gonna—"

Kurapika pulls off of him again, the wet chill of saliva tightening in his gut, a thread clung between his teeth. Kuroro has the horrifying, microsecond thought that Kurapika might not finish him off. Might not _let_ him finish. Dousing ice water on the hot coals he stroked.

But just as the thought slips into his mind, Kurapika's hand closes around him with a vice, pulling a pain-pleasure _grunt_ from his chest before Kurapika is leaning over him, all sweat-clung skin and heavenly beauty, his tongue dipping against the gasping part of his lips.

He can taste himself on Kurapika's tongue. Bitter against the sweet curl. Kurapika's hand is gripping against his nape, pulling him hard against his mouth, lips and tongue and teeth _dragging,_ against soft breathes, and the spit-slick roll of Kurapika's wrist, tender and _tight—_

His moan is muffled by Kurapika as he spills into his fist.

The shudder-shakes of his orgasm blending into heady satisfaction dipping against his spine. He can feel the slip of the table under him, feel the cling of gossamer against his skin. The indent of a jewel. Kurapika plants a sweet little kiss against the corner of his mouth, stroking him through the ripple of it until Kuroro nips at his lip, tipping in for a deeper kiss. Hands still frozen at his sides.

_Fuck._

Kurapika pulls back a moment. His hand steadied on Kuroro's hip.

His lips are swollen and, for that, Kuroro feels victory.

He licks his lips. "Could you get the handkerchief from my pocket?"

"What?"

"My handkerchief." Kuroro repeats and Kurapika stares at him, rose-dusted cheeks and furrowing brows. "For your hand." He trails off.

Kurapika stares at him a moment more before he is pulling away, bending to grab the discarded jacket, and pulling out the white linen napkin. He cleans his own hand with creased deliberation before handing it to Kuroro. "You know, most people say my bedside manner leaves something to be desired, but—" Kurapika begins archly.

Kuroro tips his chin. "Could you also get the other thing from my inside pocket?"

If looks could kill.

Kurapika reaches into his jacket again, fingers dipping along the seams of the pocket before pulling out a packet of lubricant. His nose wrinkles, eyes flicking to Kuroro. "You expected this?"

There is a cool steel to his voice. An unending archness that, had Kuroro been a god-fearing man, might have made him bow and repent. Luckily, he is not and Kurapika's tone goads him into a flash of teeth; propriety belied by satisfaction.

"I hoped."

"You hoped." Kurapika clucks his tongue at him. He tosses the jacket aside, a careless fling that has Kuroro's brows lifting as Kurapika's arch higher. "Do you just carry these around with you? Hoping I'll be in the mood?"

"Don't be ridiculous." He chides. "Not _all_ the time."

"Explain then."

His tone seems indulgent, as if prying for some dirty confessional.

Kuroro is not the confessing type.

His is not a knee-bending worshiper.

Kurapika's request hangs in the barmy air between them, unanswered, and his eyes flick away. Cuts of flint. Blond hair tips to the side, the way it does when Kurapika is thinking, thinking _intensely._ His eyes are glazed, expression pursed and banal, as he eyes the packet, tapping his finger against the edge. Working out the next step of their game.

Kuroro's mind slows, anticipation bending him at the waist.

_Fuck it._

"I want you."

It's not the answer Kurapika seems to expect, though it should be obvious. The brow furrow of annoyance has smoothed from his face. His fingers idle. His guard drops. Surprised.

He is growing quickly addicted to those eyes.

The piercing stare pulls a deep cord within him as Kurapika's hips shift, his mouth quirks, and he tosses the packet at him. Kuroro catches it, mid-air, eyes on Kurapika's fingers slipping against the tongue of his belt. His shirt still half-tucked against the waistband.

" _Earn it_."

He feels his cock twitch to life as the smooth, burning implication, the _order_ slides down his spine, into the nestle of gut. Kurapika's smile is gamely, teasing, _radiant—_

_Fuckin' perfect._

Hued in the dim light, he watches Kurapika undress. The dark casting shadows against the contours of his body, but the snap of a belt buckle hits the floor, followed by a drag of fabric against round of shoulders, golden thighs, gripping hips, and a dark thatch of hair—

He drags a breath through his nose, sharp, drying his throat.

Kurapika steps towards him, a benevolent angel between his knees. His hand presses against the edge of the table, leaning, lifting, rising for leverage. Kuroro is still.

Kurapika's lips brush his own. "Help me up."

Kuroro does so with ease, pulling Kurapika atop of him, his hand steadying his waist and the back of one thigh as Kurapika leans into him, chest to chest, his mouth tipping against the curve of a jaw. He plants a kiss to that throat and feels an answering shudder.

His teeth kiss the edge of collarbone and Kurapika hums, pleased.

He places a kiss against his breastbone, lip dragging against skin and Kurapika spurs him on, fingers dragging through his hair. A question burning in the back of his mind. "Do you—?"

"Here."

He tears the packet, slinking up his fingers as Kurapika kisses his neck, soft and sweet, breaths pitching off into a moan when Kuroro presses a finger where Kurapika guides him. His hand tightens around the back of his neck, a cuff of tension, aching. "Mm, go slow." His mouth drags across his throat, lips like satin.

Kuroro is nothing if not a student.

And Kurapika is quickly becoming his favorite subject.

He takes his time, pressing against the walls and kissing his throat, finding new ways to make him hum and sigh and, when he introduces another finger, ways to make him _moan._ Kurapika is careful with those. His noises locked behind teeth, deep in his chest, and it makes Kuroro feel a little _greedy_.

By three fingers, Kurapika's hips are thrusting against him. A wet drag against his filling cock. "Are you sure you want to do this here?" He asks. Kurapika looks mildly annoyed by the question, kiss-drunk and golden, then his expression smooths, peering at him under his lashes.

"You don't want to hear the table creak when I ride you?"

It _is_ an appealing image.

Kurapika leans back to stare down at him from his lashes, shaded in the cut of light, skin rising more pink than gold, bitten pepper-red where Kuroro's teeth grazed. He rolls his hips, dragging his folds against Kuroro again. More than ready.

He slides his fingers out, hand fisting on the discarded handkerchief, before he lines himself up against his entrance.

Kurapika sinks down onto him and Kuroro runs a hand down his flank, easing him as he goes. He guides Kuroro's hands to his hips before bracing his on abdomen, running his palms up as he gives an experimental thrust, hips moving, breath catching.

The tight pull of Kurapika leaves him sinking into the table, jewels digging into his back, leaving imprints, and cutting into his skin. Gentle reminders.

Kurapika makes a ragged noise when he bottoms out, a sweet, startled cry that has him arching and Kuroro's fist closing, stalling the refractory movement of Kurapika's hip. Despite the preparation, he is _tight_. Sucking him in with each shift of his hips.

And the white-lipped press of Kurapika's mouth doesn't ease the tension.

He runs a soothing hand on a thigh, brushing the fine hairs of his legs and fingertips sliding in distraction. "Take a moment," he murmurs, sliding his fingers against the pale rise of a scar. "Breathe."

The reminder has Kurapika hissing through his teeth.

The heat of moment sliding home, one thing becomes glaringly obvious, laid bare on his face, from his reactions—Kurapika has never done this before.

Despite the posturing and pleasing, the glint of teeth and soft words, the coil of the con seems to be unspooling now that Kurapika has made it this far. Inexperience swayed by enthusiasm. But he's still _here,_ with _him,_ choosing _him,_ and letting Kuroro be the one to take him apart.

The thought earns some gentleness in him, heat simmering on his skin, fingers uncurling.

His hand slides off a hip, fingers tracing the thigh to the heat between. His eyes meet Kurapika's, brows peaked in question and Kurapika nods, furiously. Eyes falling closed as Kuroro's thumb dips against wet heat, sliding and slick with arousal that places a smug satisfaction in his chest. _I made you like this. I will make you come, make you mine—_

It shaves the tension in Kurapika's spine. Easing the pull on his length as Kurapika relaxes into something with a tremble. Kuroro enjoys it too.

It feels good to touch him, play with him, feel those little tremors as he wets his fingers on his tongue and slides back against him. Just for the sordid pleasure of it all. Kurapika—watching him, _watching him, him_ —makes a noise, half-disgust, half-moan, as Kuroro curls a knuckle.

Kurapika pushes his hips against his, the stretch easing, the tension lessening. He gives an experimental thrust _,_ and Kuroro's thumb misses its rhythm, dragging low against his core, shuttering with the _wet, tight, heat—_

A deep curve forms in Kurapika's spine, cutting the edge of his rib bones. Happy.

"You like it?" He asks, air punched out of his chest.

Kurapika doesn't answer him, instead he grinds down harder. Bolder. When he rises again, Kuroro lifts his hips to meet him, drawing a low hiss from Kurapika. His head tips back to the ceiling, lips parting all glorious, as he picks up a steady pace, hips rolling, nails scraping, as he pins Kuroro under him. Hips snapping in retaliation.

The moments seem to slip like sand through a sheave, every inch of Kurapika moving and arching. His walls clenching around him in a way that has him counting back, humming against the push of his hips and the deep desire to pull.

Kuroro finds himself chasing the feeling. Again. Every movement makes him want to commit this moment to memory, burn it into his skin like the gentle touches Kurapika bestows on him. God, he wants more of him.

Wants him all the time.

The whisper, shudder, _sighs_ Kurapika makes are a tune all their own. With a particularly hard thrust they are breathy and Kurapika's palm claps down beside his head, fingers gripping at the pall under his neck. He runs a hand across the sweet bow of his spine, playing him as he goes. Kurapika's eyes shut, mouth slack, throat red. He wants _more._

"Look at me," he commands, voice clenching with the shift of Kurapika's hips. The new angle has him gazing up at Kurapika through dazzling light as he leans down, mouth dragging against his own.

He wants those whispered sighs, and trembling hands, and smooth skin with hairline scars. He wants Kurapika's eyes most of all. He wants him to _look_ at him. Know that Kuroro is the one driving his pleasure, making him shudder and sigh, he wants his _full attention,_ but the denial has Kuroro digging his nails in.

Kurapika leans back on his haunches, chasing his own pleasure. With a swivel of his hips he has Kuroro tightening his hands, fingers pressing into the soft give of skin _,_ sliding against the sweat and his hips lift against the table, pistoning _up_. It drags a broken sound from Kurapika. Hands catching against his wrists, gripping tight.

His hands hook around the bookmarked edges of Kurapika's hipbones, pulling down, disrupting the stuttering rhythm of Kurapika's thrusts, _again_ , begging a strangled noise from his lips—

But soon, Kurapika gets ahold of Kuroro's hands, slipping them off and pinning them to the table. The shackled grip grinding against his wrist bones as Kurapika leans back, walls tightening. The pleasure bridles his annoyance. Had he not been good? Had he not done as Kurapika asked? Had he not enjoyed his touch? _Revealed_ in it?

But when he looks up, Kurapika is over him.

Flush chasing down his chest, the swollen-kiss-bitten lips, the parted breathy sighs, and—

" _Shit._ "

—his _eyes._

Dazzling. Like stars in the sky, the deep color hinting on a rich umber, like stones at the bottom of a riverbed, like gold when it's taking its shape, fiery-hot and beautiful, like every precious, perfect thing Kuroro has ever held in his hands.

Lashes wet against his cheek. Swimming.

And Kuroro held beneath this flowing skyline.

It's enough to drag Kuroro over the edge and spill into him, hips snapping, knees rising, _deep,_ as Kurapika grinds above him. Sinking with a gracious sound.

It's a spinning, sputtering moment before Kuroro can drag a breath that isn't Kurapika's name, before he can pull himself out of that simmer, shudder of lust halting his spine before he realizes that Kurapika is still moving against him.

Walls clenching down on a spasm, grinding against _nothing._

Lower lip tucking between teeth. A desperate noise.

He breaks the hold of Kurapika's palms. His attention is elsewhere as he sinks back, rearing, and stiff. He manages to pull Kurapika off him and, between a noise that might be displeasure or annoyance, he slides out from under the cradle of thighs and behind him. He has the feigning thought of taking him like this, finishing him off by pulling his hips flush and sinking his teeth against the curve of neck, _but—_

He wants to be sweet.

A rare, rare thing indeed.

_Oh, look what you do to me._

He guides Kurapika to lie on his back, knees knocking against his hips and Kuroro curls his hand under a thigh as he leans down to kiss him. Once. Twice, with tongue, then pulls back, sinking low.

Kurapika seems to follow his intentions, and rises up on a palm, fingers catching on Kuroro's hair. "You don't have to—" Kurapika lets out a squeak when Kuroro pulls him closer to the edge as he leans down.

"Nonsense." He lifts a swell of thigh against his shoulder and then positions the other higher, heel balanced on the edge of the table, holding him open. Kurapika's fingers are still hooked in his hair. "Unless."

His gaze slides across rosebud skin. Then lower, gaze darkening at the sight of his own spill before he slips his fingers back in. Kurapika shudders at the stretch, thigh folding against his shoulder. The slide is much easier now, the angle sweet, and if the way Kurapika's hips stutter were anything to go by, he knows it feels good.

He presses a kiss to the curve of Kurapika's knee. "I've been good for you." He mumbles against the seam, sliding his teeth against the full thigh. " _Let me_."

It is a request as much as it is a demand.

And he will not fold before Kurapika gives him permission.

He wants to hear it, he _wants—_

He shudders under the catch of Kurapika's fingers. He wants so much, the weight of it stills him. Makes the cage of his chest ache.

"Okay." Kurapika whispers with a shudder.

"Okay?"

" _Please._ "

Hissed, weighty. Finally.

Kuroro groans in satisfaction. "Keep your hand in my hair."

He bows over him, nose brushing the wiry curls and scenting the heat. His thumb rubbing against his clit in a way that has more of those whisper sighs, more shifting hips, more choked off little moans. The glistening rise of collarbones. The concave of the abdomen.

Kurapika's fingers stay gripped into his hair, pulling hard when Kuroro introduces his tongue, sliding against the apex of his sex and the vault of hips bucking against his mouth, a wanton cry slipping from his lips.

It's a trip over the edge from there.

Kuroro's mouth bring him to the summit.

He keeps going until Kurapika's fingers dig against his scalp and he relents; trapped between thighs, and hands, and those deep sobbing breathes as he rides out the aftermath of his orgasm. Kuroro slides his tongue against him, lapping and teasing until Kurapika's fingers ease in the coil of his hair, nails scratching softly. "Stop."

Kuroro turns his face, peppering the inside of Kurapika's thigh with kisses, tasting him on his mouth. When he looks up, he encounters bliss.

Kurapika is boneless against the table. Spent. The bracket of his hips wreathed and blooming with early bruises. The rise and fall of his pinked chest. The balm of sweat on his skin. He has an arm thrown across his face. Elbow peaked white.

Kuroro takes pity on him and places a kiss on his navel, then below his ribs. Kurapika makes a noise, twisting against his grip. "You're so touchy." He nips at the edge of Kurapika's hipbone and smiles as Kurapika settles back, mumbling in that scratchy, whispered voice.

A strange satisfaction pulls over him seeing Kurapika like this, laid out like a precious treasure. Marvelous and out of breath. Kuroro between his legs.

Had he energy, he might have kissed his thigh and worked him up to go again.

He rises up from the floor, feeling the stiffness of the linoleum on his knees, the sticky need for a shower, the satisfied, foreign heat abating his spine, but as he gazes down on Kurapika, his spoils of war, an intrusive thought passes through his mind.

Kurapika is caught up in his own world.

Not at all here with Kuroro.

He not sure what he expects—quiet virginal modesty, maybe, or that chorus of siren song—but Kurapika is silent without cause, face still covered, breath even. His thigh brushes against Kuroro's flank on its descent from the table, hanging loose over the edge.   
  


He leans up and over, arching like a cat, contented but snubbed.

A hand on his jaw catches his attention. Kurapika eyes are flat black once again. Hair spilling back on a kaleidoscope of jewels. "We're leaving for Yorknew tomorrow." He says, counting the breathes that pass his lips, the stares. "Travel with me."

It's not an order. Not the detailed structure he would usually give, but under Kurapika's unyielding gaze, he cannot curb the gentleness that takes his tone. That unerring desire to somehow _appeal_ to Kurapika more than he obviously does.

Keep him loyal and willing and _devoted._

Kurapika's lips are chapped, burned with teeth.

"Okay."

They seal it with a kiss.

**Author's Note:**

> Last week, my non-shipper roommate turned to me and said, "do you know some people ship KuroKura?" and my pokerface just crumbled in the face of his arched scrutiny. So, now I must do the opposite of repent and ship these two harder bc I'm just built like that 😅
> 
> So...I never write smut. And I mean, I never post the smut I write because I get self-conscious about what I think is sexy verses character motivations and what other people might like. But, I've been encouraged to just post it, so here you go! Tell me what you think!
> 
> So, yeah, my new three-shot of KuroKura. I have so many ideas! 💕
> 
> Actual Notes: I think we can all agree as a fandom that as an avenger, Kurapika is slowly destroyed by the role. Killing people destroys him. Killing Uvogin and Pakunoda tears him to pieces. Even worse if this time he gets to know them. And in all of that self-hatred and pain he makes a martyr and uses Kuroro's curiosity/obsession to punish himself. Also, Kurapika may or may not have been ADVISED to sleep with Kuroro. Who knows? Not me. (Yeah, I know.)
> 
> But yes, I pushed myself out of my comfort zone, so please feel free shame me in the comments. I would love to know your thoughts, predictions (oh, please tell me your predictions), or lines you liked! I am going to bake a cake now ✨
> 
> Come sit in hell with me on twt @cafeannafics
> 
> -cafeanna


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